Sadye Holmes
by ForeverAlwaysTogether
Summary: I promised to burn you Sherlock. I promised to burn the heart out of you. Only four things in your life matter to you- to your heart. Tell me, what would you do if I took one? –JM
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was not meant to be a father, of that he was certain. He was not meant to _feel_. He was meant to solve crimes. That is what he was meant for. Yet there he was, pacing outside a hospital room with Irene Alder giving birth inside.

He wouldn't have agreed to leave if her nurse and doctor inside the room with her were not the best in London. Of course the nurse did have a large dog and a cat- Irene was allergic to cats. She also was a smoker, judging by the nicotine stains on her shoes. She also was recovering from a lip-biting habit- her lips were pale and cracked.

The doctor, he was a slightly different story. He was happily married for five years, judging by the style and condition of his wedding ring. He wore an old gold chain around his neck, a gift from his father. It- unlike his ring- was dull and dirty, suggesting he did not like his father every much. His poster and hair cut supported the claim he was in the military, as did the navy tattoo on his right shoulder blade.

He shut his eyes and winced when he heard Irene cry out in pain again. He knew child birth was painful, but he did not know exactly _how_ painful. Again she cried out and Sherlock was very thankful he had been born male.

"Ah, baby brother! Congratulations, you're a father." Sherlock knew the sound of his brother's voice anywhere. Ever since they were younger however, he had detested the sound. Unless of course he needed to access some information from the British government.

"Wrong, Mycroft. I am an _expecting_ father. Irene has pushed three and a half times; they have yet to see a head." Sherlock turned to look at his brother, meeting his eyes and he felt a pang of guilt hit him.

His brother had wanted to be a father and a husband. The ring he wore on his right ring finger was his wedding band. The woman had died only a few months after their marriage- suicide. She had miscarried. Mycroft had to bury his wife and child. He stopped allowing himself to care after that. Yet there Sherlock stood, outside the room where his wife was giving birth to their child.

"Boy or girl?" Sherlock knew his brother had always wanted a son. He found himself hoping he had a daughter. Not that he cared either way, but he already had what his brother did not. Having a boy would just hurt his brother more.

"Irene wanted to be surprised." As if her name was some kind of trigger, she cried out again. He winced and turned away from his brother to look at the door. "She didn't want me to here to scream," he explained. "She refused the pain killers and told me to wait outside."

"Sounds like her."

They stayed silent after that- they had nothing left to say. Sherlock had stopped pacing and stood directly outside the door, his hands clasped back behind his back. Sometimes he could felt Mycroft's eyes on him, but he would not meet his stare.

Then the nurse opened the door. "You can come in now." There was a smile on her lips as she held the door open for him. Sherlock did not bother to ask Mycroft to come in with him- his brother was already at his heels.

Irene sat probed up on the bed. Her forehead was shining- she had been sweating. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Sherlock. In her arms was a pink blanket. A girl. Sherlock stopped at the foot of her bed, gazing at his wife and new child.

"Well, come here," she whispered to him. He walked slowly to the head of her bed and looked down at the bundle in her arms. A small face was looking up at him with his eyes. He could not help the smile had spread across his lips. "They say her eyes may darken a bit, but I hope not." She paused and their eyes met. "Would you like to hold her?"

"I don't know how to-"

"The great detective Sherlock Holmes does not know how to do something as simple as holding a child?" Her voice was teasing, but it was also a challenge.

Gently, he took the baby from her mother's arms. Her small mouth opened and she yawned. He leaned his head closer to hers to get a better look at her. One of her hands reached up and grabbed one of his thick black curls and he smiled. Taking her small fist in his, he pulled his hair from her grasp. His eyes flickered up to Mycroft was still standing at the foot of Irene's bed.

"Congratulations," Sherlock said to him. "You're an uncle."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Please, Sherlock. No one congratulates the uncles. It's the mothers and fathers who receive them."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. He walked to his brother and held out his daughter. "Did you want to hold your niece or not, Mycroft?"

"Me?" he asked. There were traces of shock in his usual emotionless face. "Hold a baby? Don't be ridiculous Sherlock."

"Mycroft, please. If I can hold one, so can you."

Mycroft looked at the small pink bundle in Sherlock's arms and sighed. He took the baby in his arms, holding her against his chest. "She has your eyes," he choked out. Sherlock smiled.

His brother looked up at Irene and gave her a small half-smile. "Congratulations; she's beautiful."

Irene smiled and him. "Thank you. She gets it from her father." Sherlock turned to her, an eyebrow raised. "I do hope she inherits your cheekbones, darling." Her smile was a flirtatious smirk now.

"And if she doesn't?"

Irene laughed. "We'll just have to have dinner again."

"I'm not hungry." He automatically responded that why whenever she suggested dinner, whether it be food or something else. Most- if not all- of the time he was lying.

Mycroft had ignored them, staring down at his new born niece. Sherlock's eyes flickered to him and his brother looked up at him. "Have you decided on a name?"

"No. We haven't had time to discuss it."

"Ah, I see." Mycroft walked to Irene's side and placed the baby in her arms. "I best be off then. Again, congratulations." He bowed his head and moved to leave, but Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Mycroft, wait. I have to tell you something."

"What, Sherlock?" He sounded exhausted and Sherlock knew he would probably go and smoke a cigarette or two the moment he left the hospital. He knew the feeling. And besides, his right hand was shaking slightly, jumping to his coat pocket where an unopened pack was waiting to lit up.

"I… thank you for coming." Sherlock extended his hand for Mycroft to shake it. It was a sign of surrender. He was willing to forget about their augments and feud; as long as his daughter was in the room. Sherlock would probably never be right with his brother, and would still only call on him to get access to top military bases. But he was willing for a small white flag. So Mycroft could have a small taste of raising a kid.

His brother just stared at his hand. He was smart enough to know what Sherlock was offering him. A chance to in his niece's life. And perhaps another chance with his brother. Slowly, as if expecting Sherlock to pull his hand away, Mycroft took his hand.

"You're welcome, Sherlock." He turned and left.

"So," Irene said her eyes only for her husband. Pride reflected in those green depths. "What will we name her, Sherlock?"

"Sadye. Sadye Holmes."

Sixteen Years Later

Sherlock Holmes crossed his arms, his eyes staring into his daughter's, the exact shade of his own. The eldest of three, Sadye was the most like her father. She inherited his eye, his cheekbones, and most of all, his personality. Although not a sociopath like him, she understood him better than most. And at times better than her mother did.

At the current moment the two stood facing each other over a dead body. After waiting and perfecting her skill at deduction, Sherlock was finally allowing her to come with him to a crime scene. It was obvious to him that it was a murder and he knew it hadn't happened there. But it was also a test to see if she was as good as her father.

"What is this? Who let the freak in?" Sergeant Sally Donovan hissed upon seeing the detective. But Sherlock did not bother to look at her. His eyes were own for his daughter.

"I did, do you have to ask?" Lestrade answered. He must have know noticed the teenage girl Sherlock had with him because he said, "Holmes, who this is? Where… where is John?"

The two ignored them both, focusing on only each other. "What do you see?" he asked.

"Dead woman, late twenties or early thirties. Her clothes suggest she is rich, but probably has a job to keep herself from getting bored. There are traces of mud on her shoes, but it hasn't rain in London since last Friday. It suggests she was killed somewhere else and dumped here. She wears no jewelry expect the necklace around her throat. Of course she could afford all the jewelry she wanted, but no, she only wears that necklace.

"The wear on the clasp means she has been wearing it for quite some time. It is dirty, not because she is won't clean it, but because it is cheap metal and will always appear dirty. It was probably a gift from a past love or family member. Past love is more likely because of the engraving; a family member would not write 'my love' on a necklace, unless of course it was a hand-me-down from a grandparent."

"Is it?" he interrupted her and her eyes narrowed.

"Interrupting is rude. No, it is not. The style and make is too recent for a grandparent to wear. No this came from someone she loved. Not her husband, she wears no wedding band and there is no tan around her finger suggesting it was stolen. This came from her boyfriend, but it very cheap. Someone with her kind of money would probably have a rich boyfriend. She was given this a younger girl by a childhood sweet heart."

"Good," he praised her, but she did not smile yet. She knnew she has missed something. Something he had already noticed.

"She was strangled, then revived, and then strangled again. The murderer revived her a final time before shooting her in the chest and point-blank range. The strangulation and then revival process suggests that her murder knew her. The closeness of the gun shot always points to this. They wanted to be near her as she died. She wanted to watch her die?"

"She?"

"The killer is female. See how her clothes are perfect? A man would not take the time to fix her clothes, but a woman might. Especially if she felt guilty about killing her. However, the strangulation points to a male, for brute force. The conclusion is still female. The bruising around the neck is faint, not as pounced as it would be had it been a male choking her."

Sherlock smiles at her, a real smile he only gives her when she feels she has earned it. And she has. She noticed everything he did, in almost the same order he did. "Excellent." This time she smiled. Sherlock turned to Lestrade and raised an eyebrow. "Did you catch all of that?"

"Anderson is ready to exam the body, Lestrade." Sally informed Lestrade, not bothering to look at Sherlock.

"Damn it." Sherlock muttered under his breath and turned to Sadye. "Has your mother taught you any new insults, lately? If so I will suddenly go deaf for the moment."

Sadye smiled up at her father, who was half a foot taller than her. "She has mostly been muttering the same things around the house when Keila and Quinton are asleep. She forgets I am like you."

"And in which way is that?"

"I hardly ever sleep."

Anderson entered the room and groaned at the sight of Sherlock. "Why does he have to be here?"

"Oh, please Anderson; I could say the same about you. Lestrade could learn more from me about in two minutes that you could tell him in two hours," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. Lestrade made no move to deny it.

"Who is she? Why is she here? This is a crime scene, Holmes, or did you forget that?" Anderson pointed at Sadye and she smirked.

"I do believe you forgot it was Mr. Anderson," she replied, stepping around her father and closer to Anderson. "Tell me, do you wear perfume?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course I don't wear perfume!"

"Really? You smell floral, and forgive if I am wrong, but your deodorant doesn't have a floral scent. I know this because this morning you were rushed leaving for work. You put your deodorant on too quickly and some of it got on your shirt. From the smell of that, I assume the floral scent is not from your deodorant and from a woman.

"Although which woman, that is a good question. Not your wife, she isn't here and you wouldn't let her close enough to hold your hand let alone hug you. And no, not Miss. Donovan- she smells like vanilla. So the only possible explanation was you went off to 'interview' the young woman to found the body- who does indeed have flowery perfume in her purse.

"Of course she was frightened from seeing a dead body, so naturally you embraced her to comfort her, didn't you?" Sadye laughed at his facial expression. "I use the term 'embrace' lightly. There is smudged lipstick on the inside of your collar and a mobile number written on the back of your hand in black pen." She turned to Sherlock for approval and he gave her a small half-smile.

Lestrade was looking at her in shock. Donovan was too busy glaring at Anderson. If looks could kill, there would be two bodies there.

"All right, young lady," Lestrade said, the only person to ask her. "Who are you?"

"Really Mr. Lestrade, I am surprised you do not see the resemblance. My mum always says I look more like my father than her." She smiled again, and offered her hand. "Sadye Holmes, at your service."

Sherlock found himself thinking that perhaps his daughter would be coming to work with him more often. She was just as brilliant as him, although he could beat her in a battle of wits. However, she could communicate to others better than he could.

He heard his mobile go off and he pulled it from his coat pocket.

_How did she do? –IH_

_ Just fine; was a bit slower than me, but at least she saw everything I wanted her to see. –SH_

_ Think she can help with 'the game' –IH_

_ Of course she can. It's just a matter if we are willing to put her life in danger to get Moriarty. -SH_

_I don't want to risk the life of our daughter Sherlock –IH_

_ Agreed- SH_

Sherlock put away his phone and looked at his daughter. She was pointing out key facts about the body to Lestrade instead of Anderson. He was having a heated argument with Donovan. Sherlock knew Lestrade would deal with him later- he needed what he and Sadye had to say. He also knew that Anderson would probably get suspended for a few days, but Lestrade wouldn't tell the supervisor. Unlike Sherlock, he didn't want to see him fired.

His mobile went after again and pulled it out, rather annoyed. He believed the conversation with Irene was over and besides, she knew he didn't like texting at a crime scene.

_I promised to burn you Sherlock. I promised to burn the heart out of you. Only four things in your life matter to you- to your heart. Tell me, what would you do if I took one? –JM_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's eyes shot up and he whirled around, his black overcoat spinning with him. He saw no one out of the ordinary. But he could feel his heart beating faster, if only slightly. Sadye would be able to tell. His eyes went to his daughter. She was looking at him now.

"Sadye, time to go," he said.

"Wait, already?" Lestrade asked. "I still need some more information!"

Sherlock ignored him and grabbed his daughter by the hand. "You have my mobile number. Let's go Sadye."

He walked quickly and Sadye had to move faster to keep up. They left the building behind and went to the main road. At the same time they raised their right hand and called out, "Taxi!" It was not unusual for the two of them to do things at the same time.

A taxi pulled in front of them, and Sherlock ushered her in first. "221B Baker Street and step on it," he told the driver.

Sherlock could not bring himself to move out of his flat, even when John did. Although he was a frequent visitor with his own set of keys, the flat felt empty with only Sherlock there. Until Irene came along.

She had shown up one night at his doorstep in the pouring rain with no umbrella. He opened the door and she smiled up at him. Her hair was wet, and strands were sticking to her face. Her clothes were soaking and she was shivering slightly.

"Why are you back in London?" he asked her. "I told you to stay away from here! You are dead-"

Irene had stepped inside, shut the door behind her and kissed Sherlock mid-sentence. "I have wanted to do that since the day I met you," she whispered, pulling away.

She didn't get very far, because he pulled her back and kissed her. Sixteen years later and Sherlock still had no idea what made him do it. She had smiled against his lips, wrapping her small arms around his neck.

"I'm getting you wet, darling," she said pulling away and looking at his shirt. She was right; it was damp from her clothes, although he really didn't mind.

Taking her by the hand, he led her upstairs and into his room. After giving her one of his shirts to change into, he left and went to the living room. His violin gleamed up at him from his seat, so he took in and began to play the song he wrote when he believed Irene was dead.

He could hear her soft footsteps as she entered the room, and he stopped turning around to look at her. She wore only his shirt, and her dark hair was pulled back away from her face; there was a flirtatious grin on her lips. Sherlock motioned for her to have a sit on the chair opposite of his own, and sat placing his violin next to him.

To his surprise, Irene did not sit next to him, but on his lap facing him. Her straddled him as much as the chair would allow and leaned in close to his ear. "After the welcome I received downstairs, did you really expect me to beside you?"

His arms stayed on the rests of his chair as her lips brushed against his. One hand went to her face, cupping her cheek. Slowly he pulled her away from him.

"Let's have dinner." It was he who made the suggestion; not her. Her eyes sparkled flirtatiously and she smirked.

"Yes, let's."

The taxi stopped just outside their door and Sherlock paid him.

"Dad," Sadye said as he climbed out of the car. "Your pulse is elevated; what is wrong?"

"Nothing. Get inside. Now." Sherlock opened the door and all but pushed her inside. He ran up the stairs, knowing Sadye was following by the falling footsteps behind him. "Irene!" he yelled for her, not finding her in their bedroom.

She was sitting in the living room with a small boy sleeping on her lap. Quinton was the youngest of their children and four years old. He had his mother's eyes and his father's thick, curly hair. It was still too early to tell if he would follow in his mother's or father's steps for his personality. Irene was also asleep, her head resting on the cushion of the couch.

Sherlock turned to Sadye. "Find your sister. Don't ask why, just go get her." He went to his wife and gently shook her shoulder. "Irene, wake up." Instead of her eyes opening, Quinton's did.

"Daddy!" he shouted, jumping at Sherlock. He fell back into his chair, not expecting his son to attack him. "Hello, daddy!"

"Hello Quinton." He stood up, his arms moving to hold Quinton against his chest. He was still small enough to be held, but both parents refused to carry him. "How long as your mother been asleep?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Mummy went to sleep after texting you, I think."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked at his wife again. She wasn't sleeping- she was faking. "Get up Irene. This is important!"

"What? Did she solve the case before you?" she mumbled, rolling away from him. "I told you, it's fine if she does- it proves she is your daughter-"

"Irene, he texted me."

At that, she bolted upright and turned to look at him. "What?" Sherlock held onto his son with one arm and pulled his mobile from his pocket. Irene quickly took it from him and scanned his messages.

"She's not here!" Sadye rushed into the room, breathing heavily. "She's gone!"

"No," Irene whispered.

"Sadye, watch your brother." Sherlock passed his son to his daughter and ran after Irene to the bedroom that was once John's.

It became the girls' room after Keila was born and they had been sharing ever since. The room was vacant. Both beds on opposite sides of the room were made and not a thing was out of place.

"Sherlock…" Irene buried her face in his chest and sobbed. "How could he have taken her? I was here the whole time!"

"Calm down, Irene. He would contact me if he had taken her; she could be in Mrs. Hudson's apartment." Even when he spoke the words, he knew it was a lie. Keila would have told her mother if she left, even to go to Mrs. Hudson's. Irene was asleep and rather than wake her, she would have written her a note and left it on the coffee stand.

Sherlock's phone went off. It was still in Irene's hands and she looked down at the message before handing it to Sherlock.

_One down and three to go, Mr. Holmes –JM_

Sherlock's eyes met his wife's. He wiped away her tears with his thumb. "I will find her, Irene. You know I will," he promised. "What did she do while I was gone? Tell me all of it."

"You and Sadye left, so I took Quinton and Keila out for lunch- just to the small café next door. After lunch Quinton wanted to go to the park, but I had too much laundry to do, so Keila took him. They came home when I was texting you. Quinton laid down on top of me and fell asleep. Keila went to her room and shut the door. I assumed she was going to play some music or something." Irene pulled herself away from Sherlock and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm not going to let our children out of my sight now." She brushed past him to the living room.

He did not follow. His eyes scanned the room, slowly. Keila's bed was perfectly made, as was her sister's. Beside her bed were her alarm clock, her watch, and her mobile phone. She never went anywhere without her phone. Sadye must have deducted that she was missing because her phone was present but she was not.

The desk that the two girls shared had their laptop open, but it was in sleep mode. Sherlock crossed the room to it and shook the mouse. The screen lit up; password protected of course. He smirked and entered the pass code- not even Sadye knew how to fool him. At the bottom of the screen was a still running program- the web cam.

He clicked on it and a paused video appeared. Upon clicking play, his daughter's face appeared. Keila was the spitting image of her mother, with her green eyes and dark curls. She even had her mother's personality. She liked speaking in riddles.

"Dad, I know you know the password to our laptop," she began. "Before I continue, I would like to say that hacking is rude. But because you hacked into our personal laptop, I know you will find this video. If you don't, I assume Sadye will. Mum asked me to take Quinton to the park after lunch she had a bunch of house chores to do. A man continuous stared at me the moment we arrived.

"He was a little taller than Uncle John with dark, short hair and brown eyes. Judging by the suit he wore, I would say he is fairly rich. There was a budge in the right inner pocket of his jacket, so I am also assuming he is armed. I know my skills at deduction are not as good as yours or Sadye's but I know a threat when I see one.

"I left with Quinton before we had even spent an hour. The man kept inching closer to us. Instead of walking home, I hailed a cab. I had the cabbie drive us around until I was certain he was not following us before driving us home. I took money from the safe to pay him. As I was paying him, however, I saw the man standing across the street. He knows where we live.

"Quinton is sleeping on mum right now; I believe he is safe. I know Sadye is with you at a crime scene, so she is probably safe too." She paused and looked behind her. "I am scared, Daddy." Her voice sounded scared. She hadn't called him 'Daddy' in years. "I know that if something happens to me, you will find me. But if something does, tell Sadye to look around the room. She'll notice what you won't. Trust me, Daddy, you will not see this- only Sadye will." Again she looked behind her as if she heard something. "I love you, Daddy." Then the screen went blank.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sadye!" Sherlock called for his eldest daughter, his eyes still fixed on the laptop screen. She knew Moriarty was following her. She knew he was going to take her. Why didn't she fight back? Or warn Irene? Keila was brilliant; she wouldn't leave without putting up a fight. Unless Moriarty gave her a reason not to fight.

Keila was fiercely protective of her younger brother; Moriarty must have known that. If he had threatened Quinton, Keila would have gone quietly.

"Yes?" Sadye stood in the door way, looking at her father with worried eyes. "What is it, dad?"

"Keila made a video before she was taken. She told me to ask you to look around the room. Apparently you will see something out of place that I will not. What do you see?"

Sadye stepped fully into the room and looked around. Sherlock watched her eyes carefully. She was looking at the bookcase near the foot of her own bed.

"The books are out of order," she said.

"What do you mean out of order?" The books were still arranged in order of the author's last name. They looked as if no one had touched them.

"Look," Sadye pointed at a random book. "This is my book, but it is on Keila's shelf. And this one; its Keila's but it's on my shelf. Our books are organized by the author's last name and which one of us owns it. It was Keila's idea, not mine. She would not put a book back in the wrong place."

"Anything else?"

"Yes." Now she moved to the bedside tables. "Those books were on our bedside tables- we hadn't finished them yet."

"Why would she put them back then?" Sherlock thought out loud. It helped him think. "What books are they Sadye?"

She grabbed the two novels and placed them on her bed. _To Kill a Mockingbird _by Harper Lee and _Wuthering Heights_ by Emily Bronte. Sherlock knew the stories, but they were not similar at all.

"It's a message." Sadye sounded slightly unsure. "A code we made up when we were younger. Mum had us convinced you were spying on us so we created a way to send each other secret messages. We haven't used it since I was ten."

"How did you do it?"

Sadye took a piece of paper from the desk and wrote down the title of the two books and the authors. "First we erased the letters with copies of each other." The letters that reminded where c, p, w, u, y. "Then we added our names and did the same thing." Now the letters s, d, c, p, w, u, k, and l were still on the page. "And then our last name." D, c, p, w, u, k, I, h, o, m, e.

"Is she trying to say home or duck? She already was home, what was the point of giving you a code to spell it out?"

"No, that's not it. The other letters are important too. They reference something. Another book, or an author."

"And did you two just happen to be reading these books?"

"I suppose so. Keila memorized which combination of books spelled out certain words. If we had been reading different books she probably still would have switched these two."

Sherlock was not completely convinced. The letters spelled out duck and home, leaving p, w, I out. What could they reference? Certainly not books or authors; that wouldn't get them to where she would be being held. Sadye let out a gasp and ran from the room. Sherlock hurried after her and found her tearing the living room apart.

"What are you doing?"

"A map! Where do you keep the map of England?" she didn't bother to turn and look at him.

Sherlock went to the desk and pushed some books out of the way. The map was unfolded beneath them from the last case he had been working on. Sadye went to his side.

"The letters p, w, i- they are reference to big cities with those letters. The ones with repeating letters aren't it; it must follow our code."

Sherlock's eyes flew across the page, he was beginning to understand. Names of cities filled his brain. For 'p' there was Plymouth and Newport, for 'w' there was Newport, and for 'I' there was Cambridge, Edinburgh, and Dumfries. He wrote the cities down and passed it to his daughter. She crossed out Edinburgh, Dumfries, and Newport.

"'W' and 'p' are in Newport, and Edinburgh and Dumfries are too far from London; she would have given us another clue if that is where she wanted us to go."

"Plymouth isn't as close as Cambridge," Sherlock pointed out. "Shouldn't we cross that out as well?"

Sadye shook her head. "There are still the words 'duck' and 'home'."

"Someone's home then. Who do we know living in Cambridge or Plymouth?" Sherlock was almost certain Moriarty didn't take Keila to his home. There would be no game then. Besides, Sherlock didn't really know where the consulting criminal lived.

"Uncle John lives Cambridge. I just don't understand 'duck'."

Sherlock looked at the paper with the mess of letters on it. His daughters went to great lengths to try and protect their school girl secrets from him. Not that it worked. He knew Sadye cheated on her seventh grade science test, but still got a C-. He knew Keila tricked a boy into buying her lunch for a few days in fourth grade. He knew they both snuck out of the house last summer to go see a movie. He didn't need them to write it out.

"Oh. Idiot," she muttered under her breath. She took the pen from Sherlock's hand and crossed out the world 'duck'. In its place, she wrote 'duke'. "We were discussing the Duke of Cambridge a few months ago," she explained. "Quinton over heard us and thought we were saying 'Duck' of Cambridge. It became an inside joke between us."

Sherlock understood the message. Keila was somewhere in Cambridge. He stood up and looked at Sadye. "All this from two books?" he asked.

"Of course." Her eyes met his. "Don't pretend to be surprised. You found two children from the kidnapper's shoe size."

At that, Sherlock gave her a small smile. "You do realize that I don't need you to write everything down for me to know exactly what you do. And it isn't spying- it's observing." Sadye turned a slight shade of pink and turned away from her father. "Irene! Get your and Quinton's coat! We are going to Cambridge!"

Irene appeared in the doorway of their bedroom. Her eyes were still red and puffy, and Quinton was on her hip. "Cambridge? Why Cambridge?"

"That is where Moriarty took Keila."

"Cambridge is 116 square kilometers, Sherlock. How can we possibly find her?" Irene sounded hopeless, but she put on Quinton's coat as well as her own. Sherlock knew she was willing to do anything to find her daughter- she just needed a few moments. He knew that if he had not been the way he was, he would probably be doing the same thing as her. But he knew crying was not going to get his daughter back.

Sherlock went to her and took Quinton from her arms, handing him to Sadye. He took Irene's face in his hands and rested his forehead against hers. "I'm not sure, love." His voice was soft. "I'll call Mycroft once we get to John's and I will call Lestrade. I will call in every favor that people owe me. I _will_ find Keila."

Irene wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the crook of neck, as his arms moved to wrap around her waist. She did not cry like before, she just let out a small sigh and her shoulders shook slightly.

"I believe you, Sherlock," she whispered against his neck. "Just promise me something. Promise me he will not hurt her."

Both Sherlock and Irene knew he had no control over what Moriarty may or may not do to their daughter. For all they knew, she was already died. But that was what Irene needed to hear. She needed to hear him promise that their daughter would be all right. That he would find her and make sure she was safe.

Sherlock pulled her away from him and again held her face in his hands. He made sure she was looking directly in his eyes and whispered, "I promise, Irene."


End file.
